


next door

by decidingdolan



Category: The Maze Runner (2014)
Genre: AU, AU Newt, F/M, Humor, Introspection, Love, M/M, Sex, Voyeurism, musings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-19
Updated: 2014-12-19
Packaged: 2018-03-02 04:41:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2799950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decidingdolan/pseuds/decidingdolan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Alternate Universe!Newt) Insomnia becomes a different story altogether when Minho's new next door neighbor turns out to be one very specific devil-may-care, sweet-talking brunette playboy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	next door

 

> _Everything that one thinks about a lot becomes problematic._
> 
> _\-- Friedrich Nietzsche, from Thus Spoke Zarathustra_

* * *

The insomnia that used to be a transient worry had become a lingering concern.

Tossed. Kicking the blanket off his frame, let the fabric unraveled around his toes. Curled up, body on its side, head on the pillow, hands next to cheek.

Room was dark, had been, the minutes interminable, the hours lengthened. Breaths low, long. Body sore, tired, asking, begging, pleading for rest.

Eyes wide open.

1:05 A.M., the lights from the digital clock on the counter at the foot of the bed blared up at him, and he turned, grunted.

Another hour, with thoughts that circled, ran in mazes, questions that were left unanswered (and would still yet be unanswered), wishes left not granted, voices that refused to go unheard. Another hour.

It’s only your head, he told himself.

It’s only your head.

(Why, then, was the mind ever so cruel to a body in dire need of rest? He’d never exactly said goodbye to sleep, when the latter had so wordlessly dismissed him and crept her way out of his life.)

And then.

_Bang!_

An explosion. The apocalypse. Or the door of the room next to his being slammed against the wall, hard.

Muffled sounds. Audible ‘plops’ of lips being kissed and ragged breaths. Jingles of keys and aimless, high-pitched giggles.

“Newt—“

A breathy moan, almost a sigh. Female, followed by rustles of fabric.

“Newt—I need you, baby.”

Metal clicks. A belt being fiddled with. A loud gasp from the other party.

“I need you. Now.”

More breaths. Short, urgent, series of bursts of air, bodies struggling against the doorframe, sounds that had Minho frozen on his bed.

“Jesus, fuck— _Camille_ — “

(And that was when he’d heard the guy’s voice for the first time. British and mellow, enough to contrast with the harsh swearing that shouldn’t, in all the best possible worlds, _shouldn’t_ at all be so fucking attractive with _that_ voice.)

The short, abrupt sound of pants being pulled down, and _bang!_ went the door again.

“That’s it—ahh, fuc---babe, that’s—“

 Short _thump!_ of what Minho had guessed to be ‘Newt’s’ fist on the door. Or his head. Or some part of his body. Some. Part.

(What he wouldn’t give to find out what this guy looked like…)

“—faster—come on, love—fas—“

Strangled groans, and the resounding, responding moans from the girl pleasuring him. They’re probabl—

No, Minho. No.

Don’t.

Sleep. Go back, erase that image forming in your mind and go back t—

> _She’s got him against the wall, his eyes closed, or looking up at the stars. His plaid shirt’s  ripped open, her sundress zipped down to her knees, breasts—warm, wanton things—out to play. She’s kneeling to the floor now, that skinny little minx, her plump, red lips blowing him a kiss, hands pulling his pants with her. Smirked up at him, and he’d responded in kind._
> 
> _Got those long, delicate fingers on him—hard, full—and he seemed to forget to breathe._
> 
> _Wrapped her lips around him right after, sweet relief. No waiting, no games. Just moist tongue and curious teeth—lapping, licking him up like he was that first ice cream cone on the Fourth of July._

“Cam—Cam—Christ, _Cam!_ “

Her name now, shortened. Blunt. Cut to match the hastened rhythm of his breaths. _Thump thump thump!_ The door wasn’t left alone, and neither was Minho’s heart. (Decided to jump into an erratic routine along with the both of them. Idiot.)

It was all commotion and mingled chaos, noises that had him hearing his heartbeats drumming in his ears. Noises, and he was praying (praying, honest to God) for ‘Newt’ to finish, for the girl to finish, for this damn blasphemy happening at an ungodly hour outside his door to finish, so he could finall—

A whimper. (A whimper! If his ears weren’t mistaken. Hm. Thought she was not playing games.)

“ _Cam_.”

Oh, Mr. Stern. All stressed up now that she’s giving _you_ a case of blue balls.

“Cam, bloody _he_ —hmhhff…mhmmfff.”

Bingo. Couldn’t just let him have his fun alone, could you, Cam?

Lips on lips—the sound was unmistakable. Another _thump!_ , and impact was definitely there.

> _She’d pressed herself up against him in Minho’s mind, breasts and bare, size two body, tight ass and a dripping pussy. Another girl he’d pickำd up from a club, a long-time girlfriend, an old flame, a visiting lover, his best friend’s girl._

Anyone Minho’s imagination had let her be.

> _And her lips were devouring his, hands taking in his body, mapping, making him hers._
> 
>   _“Fuck me, Newt,” she’s whispering against his ears, breasts rubbing up against his naked chest, “Finish it.”_

And the door creaked under pressure. The thumps echoed his thrusts, their heaving breaths syncing into one, merged, accelerating…until—

Sharp cries, and Minho breathed a sigh. At least one round was over.

“Goddamnit, Cam, you’re—“

But what Newt was cursing Camille about Minho couldn’t hear. There were footsteps, misguided, lost ones of drunks, and the door had slammed shut. His impromptu nighttime show was over. The actors had left the stage.

 

* * *

 

“You new?”

Minho’d scrunched up his nose when he stepped out of the room. The pungent cigarette smoke pervaded the air, and he wasn’t much awake yet. It was Saturday, for God’s sake.

The Asian’s eyes followed the sound of the voice and landed on a striking young man in his twenties, arms on the balcony of their floor. Brunette, with fluffy bedhead that he’d still love to muss up. Lithe frame, toned abs (Show-off, went Minho’s mind.), in nothing else but his boxers.

(As he should be. Hiding a figure like that under any type of clothing would be an obvious sin.)

“Hey,” the Brit took another drag of his cigarette and exhaled, the smoke hitting Minho full in the face, “ _You._ I said, you new?”

(And what were you wearing? Tank top, shorts, flip-flops. Typical laundry day attire. Enough Murphy’s Law’s power left in the world for him to wake up at the same time as Mr. McHottie next door. Great.)

“Yea, just—“ (Why did you put your hands in your pocket? No. Stop that. Don’t.) “Moved in yesterday.”

He nodded, turned away, blew more smoke into the air.

The voice registered in Minho’s mind then, and—oh. If it wasn’t—

“Newt!”

(Now did you just say that out loud?

Idiot, Minho. You’re the world’s biggest idiot.)

The brunette was facing him again, those perfect eyebrows raised. “Excuse me?”

Scram. Run. Lie. Say you’ve overheard his name. Say you were thinking of a _Harry Potter_ character. Say you were watching _Pacific Rim_ las—

Before Minho could open his mouth, Newt chuckled, the cigarette leaving his lips.

“Oh,” he shrugged, corner of lips tugged up in an amused fashion, “Sorry about that. Me and Cam.”

He ran a hand through the messy bedhead, and Minho stopped himself from swallowing. His cheeks were heated, his heartrate doubling, and the Asian wanted to disappear.

(Or stay. Or both.)

“She was asking for it,” Newt muttered, oblivious to Minho’s flushed expression, and the mellow British accent transformed into a high-pitched American girl’s, “I need you, _baby,_ I want _you_. _Ooh_ , fuck _me_ , please.”

“Girls,” he shook his head, cigarette drawing a line in the air, “Never know what they want. One minute they’re blowing you, and the next they’re slapping the shit out of you.”

A sigh. Newt was staring off into space as he talked. Didn’t glance back at his unsuspecting audience.

“Not going to say it won’t happen again,” he continued, cigarette between his middle and index finger, “Because I can’t fucking guarantee lust, but—“

Minho coughed, face reddened, “I, uh, I should be going.”

(Laundry. Right. Wherever that was.)

“A’right,” Newt slipped into an American accent, the counterpart to his British one, “Later, new guy.”

“Minho,” Minho corrected him, letting himself smile in front of the Brit a little (one step at a time).

Newt turned and winked at Minho, end of his cigarette pointing in his direction.

“Minho,” he repeated.

And just like that, his name coated in that delectable British accent, caressed by that tongue, and released through those flushed lips, Minho knew he was fucked.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for stopping by, reading, leaving comments. Y'all mean the world to me. Comments are greatly appreciated and would be instrumental in further improvements of my writing. It's been a while since I'd gotten time to write properly! 
> 
> With love and ristretto,
> 
> x


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